With meticulous attention to detail, the two Agents weighed up Smith's barb
regarding Jones' lack of results, and decided that although harsh, the
other program was savoring his position of authority whilst attempting a
difficult practical task. This conclusion was especially reinforced after
Agent Smith allowed his colleagues a few brief (and somewhat self-
satisfied) crumbs of his location scan discoveries. Her name was 'The White
Rabbit' and thusly 'quite interesting'. She was 'dangerous and connected to
the most wanted Morpheus'. Also, 'if Jones does not do something
constructive about the offending hair strands he will forced into a small
commercial business that maintains and grooms young men with disorderly
haircuts'.
The heavy gesture of doubt hung like a sandbag on fraying rope above Jones'
head, and Brown could read his thoughts as one would a book.
This is why both were equally surprised when the taller Agent reached out
an impulsive hand and smoothed Jones' ever-clean, brown-like-the-colour-of-
small-rodents hair.
"A remark such as what the hell are you doing may suit this occasion,"
Jones said, looking with intense disbelief into the other Agent's slightly
more elevated face.
"I do not approve of Agent Smith's suggestion of potential servitude in
human hair care," replied Brown in the semblance of near horror. He
couldn't seem to restrain the urge, and the tiny act of humanity was so
unlike an A.I that the Matrix had ever seen that neither could assimilate
what exactly was happening to them.
Jones, who had been visibly bristling under his tidy black jacket, seemed
to be stunned into staring.
Staring at the perfect -even beautiful- replica of a human hand, complete
with realistic grooves and skin blemishes.
Staring at the arm attached to that amazing hand, moving with the
suggestion of various muscular bundles just below the surface.
Staring, finally, at the chiseled and near-identical somber features of
Agent Brown, an imposing figure with a gruff tone and dutiful demeanor. If
Jones was much into anthropomorphism he'd liken his colleague to the sorts
of trusty canine companions that humans often sought solace in. To assume
an Agent was in any way cute or cuddly was either the irrational passion of
the completely insane fan of anything in suits or an opinion held by those
soon to be dead. If Agent Brown was analyzed for his dog-ness, the result
would be a well-groomed purebred Alsatian. Jones, a small yet effective
Dachshund. and Smith, a deceitfully calm hound with a baleful glare and a
tendency to tear an enemy's throat out.
"Why have you not withdrawn your awry limb?" Jones centered his willpower
on Brown, using both the I.N.C and his vocal chords to force his point.
(Thankfully Agent Smith was too absorbed in his work to be picking up the
conversation; otherwise, it'd be the barber shop for sure.)
When Brown made no attempt to move away, neither did Jones, and the pair
were in a curious kind of cul-de-sac of action. "I don't believe you to be
incompetent," offered Brown.
"That is encouraging; please do not overexert yourself with support,
Brown!"
Brown looked mildly put out, and he glanced uncertainly at his overly
sarcastic companion, trying to assess the mixed signals Jones was radiating
and whether to comment on the wonderful sensation of soft, humanoid hair
underneath the touch receptors in his fingertips.
Instead, the two Agents gazed passively through standard issue shades and
contemplated one another's motives until the high frequency hum of a
Communicator beacon bored into the back of their collective skulls.
Brown. Jones. I have discovered something of interest. transfer to my position immediately. Ah. Transfer. That was something an Agent could get his head around. Jones and Brown shared one last luxurious glance and a sharp electronic buzz consumed the Agents, the System devouring their entities with a couple of clipping errors and sparks. Where the pair had been standing was a duo of extremely nauseous security guards with cloned splitting migraines and just the right chunk of memory missing.
Meanwhile, a pair of joggers who made the mistake of crossing NYCorp's ground floor car park never knew what hit them. Skin bubbled and contorted, individuality and distinction twisting and fading as the two Agents transferred their digital selves into host programs. After a few seconds of painful warping, two crisp black suits crossed the pockmarked concrete to where a stately silhouette stood motionless, inexplicably poised in an intense observation of something, much like the posture of a hawk tracing every detail of its prey before making the kill.
"We are in luck, colleagues."
Brisingamen, on the other hand, would beg to differ. Luck, she would say, has absolutely nothing to do with it. Especially in this case. Tall, graceful and under observation. not the sort of observation a person would welcome; the Agents watched attentively as the current One picked her way through the masses, the laziness of the heat casting a soporific spell on everyone but the hunters/ hunted. The White Rabbit's visual appearance matched the trace stills magnificently, and her steady meander was brimming with confidence and ease. Although Brisingamen's last shift was over, work wasn't through with her yet. A suspended droplet of time, linear and yet here, in the Matrix, time is/was/will be volatile. Malleable. The masters of an insidious puppet show that millions called life were the ones who shaped the System, moved and stretched the rules and regulations of the grand illusion. It was so easy to slide back into the mirage of normality. The Matrix was a masterpiece, of course! Who could not be impressed with the calculated simulation and efficient power harvesting that the machines created? But why is it that origins are always forgotten, that the child must turn upon the creator and curse they whose image has been emulated? Perhaps the human race has a lot to answer for.
Brisingamen was still weaving through the crowded streets, keeping her head down. She was thinking about all the people bumping or brushing past her, the lives they led, and how different her own was. They had a welcoming family and warm bed to go home to. She had a ferret and a large chip on her shoulder. All her years of knowing the truth hadn't taken the edge of this hard fact; it was something she both loathed and tolerated. It was now that the Agents made their final evolution, emerging from the shadows of the car park like butterflies from a chrysalis. The searching was over (and Jones was presumably into more comfortable territory) as the ultimate hunters changed gears for their favorite part of proceedings. Agent Smith reached into the yellow silk-lined depths of his jacket. On withdrawal of his hand, a mildly heavy instrument of destruction sat neatly in his grasp. He flexed his muscles, and there was a sharp click as the safety was disabled.
The chess game had well and truly begun.
Brown. Jones. I have discovered something of interest. transfer to my position immediately. Ah. Transfer. That was something an Agent could get his head around. Jones and Brown shared one last luxurious glance and a sharp electronic buzz consumed the Agents, the System devouring their entities with a couple of clipping errors and sparks. Where the pair had been standing was a duo of extremely nauseous security guards with cloned splitting migraines and just the right chunk of memory missing.
Meanwhile, a pair of joggers who made the mistake of crossing NYCorp's ground floor car park never knew what hit them. Skin bubbled and contorted, individuality and distinction twisting and fading as the two Agents transferred their digital selves into host programs. After a few seconds of painful warping, two crisp black suits crossed the pockmarked concrete to where a stately silhouette stood motionless, inexplicably poised in an intense observation of something, much like the posture of a hawk tracing every detail of its prey before making the kill.
"We are in luck, colleagues."
Brisingamen, on the other hand, would beg to differ. Luck, she would say, has absolutely nothing to do with it. Especially in this case. Tall, graceful and under observation. not the sort of observation a person would welcome; the Agents watched attentively as the current One picked her way through the masses, the laziness of the heat casting a soporific spell on everyone but the hunters/ hunted. The White Rabbit's visual appearance matched the trace stills magnificently, and her steady meander was brimming with confidence and ease. Although Brisingamen's last shift was over, work wasn't through with her yet. A suspended droplet of time, linear and yet here, in the Matrix, time is/was/will be volatile. Malleable. The masters of an insidious puppet show that millions called life were the ones who shaped the System, moved and stretched the rules and regulations of the grand illusion. It was so easy to slide back into the mirage of normality. The Matrix was a masterpiece, of course! Who could not be impressed with the calculated simulation and efficient power harvesting that the machines created? But why is it that origins are always forgotten, that the child must turn upon the creator and curse they whose image has been emulated? Perhaps the human race has a lot to answer for.
Brisingamen was still weaving through the crowded streets, keeping her head down. She was thinking about all the people bumping or brushing past her, the lives they led, and how different her own was. They had a welcoming family and warm bed to go home to. She had a ferret and a large chip on her shoulder. All her years of knowing the truth hadn't taken the edge of this hard fact; it was something she both loathed and tolerated. It was now that the Agents made their final evolution, emerging from the shadows of the car park like butterflies from a chrysalis. The searching was over (and Jones was presumably into more comfortable territory) as the ultimate hunters changed gears for their favorite part of proceedings. Agent Smith reached into the yellow silk-lined depths of his jacket. On withdrawal of his hand, a mildly heavy instrument of destruction sat neatly in his grasp. He flexed his muscles, and there was a sharp click as the safety was disabled.
The chess game had well and truly begun.